Requiem for the Conqueror

Chapter 22

Tybalt, the Imperial Seventh, sat at the head of the table in the Council Chambers and looked up at the skylight overhead. Sunlight from the bright Regan day shot down into the room in rainbow colors, thanks to the prism effect of the glass above. Black granite columns rose to support white marble arches to either side of the long computer-studded conference table. Unlike the usual Council meetings, this one had begun grimly.

Around the table, his Ministers argued among themselves, gesturing, pointing to computer printouts, and disagreeing with each other. On the whole, their attitudes were less bellicose now that they were faced with the real thing. Even the bright colors they wore looked a little drabber.

Tybalt wiggled uncomfortably and frowned — more at the burning caused by his flaming hemorrhoids than from the haggling that engrossed his Council. The tingle of desperate fear just under his stomach could almost eclipse the itchy irritation in his anus — but not quite. Invincibility had long ago become a part of Tybalt's personality. But with Ily's latest communication his impenetrable wall had cracked, his irresistable momentum slowed. The bitter taste of fear lay on the back of his tongue — and Tybalt didn't like it.

What have you done to us, Ily? Tread with care, my sweet panting lover. Fail me now, and you shall find the true power of that little jeweled badge I gave you.

Rotted Gods! Had everything gone awry at once? First Ily reports the pus-eating Companions are under contract to Sassa; and the cursed Lord Commander has been spying among the Etarians. Why? Stirring up religious dissent? Now she's off trying to sniff around Sinklar Fist? And the Targan situation deteriorates as the wrong First loses the

wrong Division in a singularly unpleasant and embarrassing defeat. And to top it all off, Mareeah — the bitch I'm married to — is manipulating the Council behind my back to oust Ily! He fidgeted again to ease his physical discomfort and coolly contemplated the sober faces of his Ministers.

"Very well, enough bickering." Tybalt's commanding voice cut through the babble. "What is the final consensus?"

The various factions forwarded their position papers to the head of the tabe. They leaned forward as expectantly as sand jackals while he scanned the contents of their reports. The Councillors had gone silent, glaring at one another

when they weren't shooting hopeful glances Tybalt's way,

He read each report, storing the salient points in his mind. Outside of the petty interdepartmental mud slinging, the picture of the Empire's condition mirrored his own evaluation. The various agencies Defense, Economics, Internal Affairs, Treasury and Internal Security — Ily's proxy — were all at odds about how to handle the situation.

So, you have played into my hands once again. How ancient is the truth that a committee is a multi-stomached animal with no brain?

Tybalt leaned back and rested his cheek on his right palm, fingers tapping the side of his nose as he thought. No, nothing new at all. He sighed and glanced down at the rows of eyes watching him pensively, eagerly, some apprehensively. From their expressions and the darting looks, he could follow their thoughts as they prepared for his decision. Those whose recommendations were ignored would unleash acid recriminations against their rivals. Those whom Tybalt sided with would preen arrogantly, patting themselves on the back for winning this round, rubbing it in the faces of the others.

And to hell with the good of the Empire Is this what we've come to? For the chance to stab a rival in the back, they'd let the entire Empire drown in blood.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said wearily. "The resolution of policy regarding the Sassans, the Companions, and Targa will be as follows. Defense: You will immediately land another five Divisions on Targa — the best you have. Put Rysta in charge. I want that revolt stopped and the miners

back at work. Crush them without ruining the economy;

we'll need the metals for the war industry."

"And this upstart, Sinklar Fist?" The Minister of Defense's blocky expression soured. "What about him?"

"Relieve him of his command and place that imbecile Mykroft in charge of the First. We can't have these novel ideas of Fist's loose to stir up the troops before the empire's final struggle against Sassan aggression."

Sorry, Ify, but that's the way of it here. If your Fist is worth further consideration, we can always bring him back.

Defense cleared his throat uneasily. "First Mykroft already tried to relieve him of command." He paused uneasily. "It may be harder than we think to move Fist out of his position."

Tybalt slapped an angry palm to the hard foam-steel arm of his chair. "You mean to tell me you can't handle your own forces? By the Rotted Gods, if he rebels, arrest him.

Defense swallowed uneasily, his face taking on an ashen hue. "His Division may back him."

A gasp of indrawn breath was followed by an awkward silence, and seconds later, by hushed whispers of disbelief.

"I trust," Tybalt added dryly, "that five veteran Divisions can handle Fist — and the Targans. That's all the strength you get. The rest of the military will begin preparations for a preemptive strike at the Sassan border worlds. I want you to bend your minds to the task of rendering each and every Sassan frontier world unfit for the purposes of staging an invasion of our territory. The fleet will support that strike, then adopt defensive patrol strategies to parry Sassan counteroffensives against our advance worlds."

More shocked looks.

Tybalt nodded soberly. "I don't like it any more than you. We're ill-prepared. But, from the intelligence we get, the Sassans are in even worse straits. If we have any chance, the time is now."

"But the Companions, as I understand, refused any—"

He interrupted Economics with a raised hand. "Internal Security has confirmed Staffa has been bound by contract to the Sassans since the beginning. I'm afraid our defense is our own. Rega stands alone… the Companions against us. Ladies and gentlemen, I presume you know what that means. I hate to think,

even as we sit here, how much time

we've lost. Speed is our only ally and, by all that is Blessed, should we fail, the Rotted Gods will chew our flesh throughout eternity."

Horrified glances shot back and forth across the table as the Councillors sat in stunned silence.

Tybalt's measured voice added soberly, "I trust you can see my reasons for this emergency meeting. Our future lies in your hands. Let's pray we can stop the Targan trouble, take the punch out of the Sassans, and deal with the Companions when they come to break our defenses."

Defense winced as he asked: "What about a preliminary strike against the Itreatic Asteroids?"

Tybalt pursed his lips and turned his hand in a questioning movement. "My Lord Minister, would you like to stir that hornet's nest sooner than necessary? You know what losses we would suffer against their defenses. Can you see any way to stop the Sassans with that much of our military capability turned to plasma? No, if we can cripple Sassa first, then, and only then, do we have a chance."

Tybalt stood slowly. "I hereby proclaim the Regan Empire to be in a state of war with Sassa. You will attend to your duties, Councillors, and for once you had better look beyond your squabbles to the good of the Empire. I hope — nay, I pray — we will be able to meet again someday in peace." He stood and nodded, flipping his long golden robe over his shoulder as he walked out. It was so unusual to leave the Council so deadly quiet.

Sinklar cradled an elbow against his chest as he considered the information coming in. Had the Targans finally massed for a big push?

He glanced around at the intricate artwork hanging on the walls of the ops room in his commandeered penthouse. What a curious contrast: The furniture — instead of the zerog foam-molded stuff — had been handcrafted from native woods inlaid with copper and silver filigree. White star blazes accented the thick ceramic-blue carpet that gave like a sponge underfoot. The battle computers that had been stacked to the ceiling along one wall destroyed the whole effect — as did the illuminated situation board that made a

divider in the middle of the room. Power cables slithered here and there across the floor, and from the number of times people had tripped over them, might almost have been alive. The large vaulted windows had been carefully masked with polarized optical sheeting that passed none of the room's light but allowed a startling view of the battle raging beyond the city. The result was that the building appeared dark from the outside.

Gretta looked up from her post at the glowing situation board. "Rebel contact reported in the foothills. Seventh Section has Groups all through there. Mayz reports skirmishing. She thinks it's infiltration. They're closing."

"Rotted Gods! Why won't Fleet give us orbital recon?" Sinklar balled a fist as he looked up at the situation board: an orthographic holophoto depicting terrain, elevation, structures, and troop positions. Sink turned, staring through the polarized windows to see streaks of blaster fire beyond the city limits.

Gretta gave him an acid smile. "I think, Sink, that considering the wonderful support Fleet and Defense have given us in the past weeks, you know exactly why."

"Still the sacrificial First," he punned. "All right, so be it. We don't have any more information than the Rebels. We ought to be able to hold our own. "

Gretta frowned at the information coming into her headset. "Second Section reports contact along the northern defensive perimeter. Sergeant Kitmon is pulling back in a tactical retreat."

"This is it," he said softly as the realization ran through his mind. I've bet Targa-and the future-on this attack. Will they fall for the trap? Please, dear Blessed Gods, may it be so. If not… well, death will be hard on the heels of mis rtune.

f0 Sink took a deep breath to still the uncertainty pumping with his very blood. In moments, he'd know whether they'd won or lost. "If they have any sense, they'll be hitting Mac next. "

"Mac!" Gretta's voice rang out as she accessed comm. "Have your advance Groups ready. They're coming." Sink punched the button that accessed the room speakers

so he could hear the entire net.

"Affirmative," Mac's voice came through. "We're ready

to withdraw. I've briefed the troops on their part. My compliments to Sink,

he called it on the noggin again. They're right on time."

Sinklar glanced up at the situation board while his guts squirmed. It could still go terribly wrong. "Now, let's pray to the Rotted Gods their commander has as much sense as I give him credit for." He paced back and forth popping his fist into his palm. "The only way we can lose is if the man's an idiot!"

Gretta pinned him with a cool stare and shrugged. "After Kaspa, I don't believe that."

"Maybe Kaspa was the result of pus-rotted luck," Sink reminded, his eyes going to the situation board. "Come on, Rebels. It's right there in front of — your noses-the key to the battle! Take it."

"Kaspa? Luck? You don't believe that." Gretta input new data as the Section Firsts chattered back and forth. "Mayz here. I've got a large contact in the foothills," the

net crackled. "Groups A to D withdrawing under heavy fire. "

"Shiksta?" Sinklar called. "What is your status? We're about to take a major assault."

"We're ready, Sink. Got the heavy stuff positioned. My boys are briefed, nervous, and determined to do their part," the big black sergeant responded.

"Now, if Mac can just do his," Sinklar whispered, eyes going to the stat board as lights flickered.

An incredible rainbow display rippled across the plains east of Vespa. The Targan advance inched closer in an attempt to tighten a noose around the city. Reports began streaming in as Sinklar moved his units, mind racing to counter the Targan offensive.

One of the other speakers crackled as the guard on the rooftop called, "First, I just spotted an intruder with my starlight scope. Looks like one person with some sort of pack. He came through one of the manholes in the back alley. Must have hit that passage we sealed off and decided to try something else."

"Got him!" Gretta snapped, accessing a screen to show an armored figure approaching at the lower doors. A woman advanced cautiously toward a side entrance. A bulky pack gave her a hunchback appearance.

Sink nodded as he watched the furtive figure. "Notice the lack of IR? That's a pretty sophisticated suit she's wearing. With that, she'd get by standard sensors without tripping an alarm."

"Yeah," Gretta agreed. "You thought they'd try something like this."

"It's their pattern," Sink agreed. "But I'm not Atkin, Kapitol… or Mykroft." He turned to the building intercom. "Mhitshul? We've got our bogey. Looks like she's headed for the west side door."

"Roger, First."

"Think you'll get her alive?" Gretta asked as she turned her attention to the situation board again.

"Depends," Sinklar mumbled absently. "Everything. depends."

The woman studied the side door. One by one, she bypassed the alarms. Then palm latches fell to her tools. She pushed hesitantly. No good, the doors had been deadbolted from the inside. With a vibraknife she sliced the hinges loose, catching the big door as it fell outward, muscles straining as she lowered it to the ground.

At that moment — with her attention diverted — Mhitshul's stun caught her. She stiffened as every nerve in her body fired, then slumped to the ground.

"Readings say she's out," Mhitshul reported.

Sink ordered, "As soon as you have her disarmed, scan her for implanted explosives, hollow teeth, poisoned nails, or anything else. Take no chances and leave her gear in the street. You know the drill."

"Yes, sir."

"She's very good to have found us at all. Must have been that supply car from munitions that tipped her off." Gretta went back to the boards.

"Ayms." Sink forced his concentration back to the battle. "You're twenty klicks to the east of Mac. That should be his defensive fire you see on the Killing Ridge. Stand by. You're in a perfect position if Mayz can hold on and kick them back. She's been playing wounded, drawing them in."

"Got it, Sink. Yeah, we've been seeing Mac's fire. It's getting a little hot here, too. We've been falling back. I make us to be three klicks northeast of the grain shipping terminal."

"You're doing great. Keep your head up. Things are going to be happening all at once."

Mhitshul and two privates carried the woman through the door and dropped

her strapped and bound body onto a thick-cushioned couch in the plush living room.

Sink glanced up to see Mhitshul standing guard over the woman with a drawn weapon. "Mac? You're on the hot seat. Withdraw from the Killing Ridge. Slowly now. Don't let them think you're giving it to them. They've got to buy it with blood or someone will get suspicious."

Gretta continued to chatter in her calm manner as she reassured Group and Section leaders while they retreated from the massive onslaught of the Targan advance.

"It doesn't do you any good to pretend," Private Mhitshul interrupted Sinklar's thoughts. "Considering the way you just fought those bonds and the breath you took, you're more than awake."

Sink glanced at the board one last time. Everything looked like it would work — just like he'd planned.

"Why am I here? What will you do to me? Keeping me for rape? Maybe sale to the slave markets?" The assassin's voice absorbed Sinklar's attention with sultry promising tones. He turned and studied her, noting how her body strained at the fabric of her clothing.

Private Mhitshul shook his head slowly, and Sink could see that he, too, devoured the woman with his worshipful gaze. "No, not at all. You're the type we would recruit. You brought a satchel with enough explosives to blow the entire top of the building off to within a gnat's whisker of the First Assault Division's ops center. The other amazing thing is how you managed to avoid tripping the active IR sensors or stumbling over any of the booby traps we've panted around this place."

She stared at him through burning amber eyes, features hard. "How did you knock me out? I never saw or heard a thing."

Mhitshul leaned against the table as he fingered his pistol. "Sinklar doesn't leave much to chance. We had a man on the roof with a starlight scope — just in case. What you experienced out there was a device called a stun rod. I suppose the best way to describe it is that you have three types of nerves which provide you with sensation. One of those

nerve types feels pain. The microwave length is tailored to fire just those synapses. I'm sorry to inform you that certain brain cells are also stimulated. We killed about as many as if you'd gone on a three-month drinking binge."

She nodded, taking another deep breath. "You don't fight like Regans."

Mhitshul laughed. "We know. Sink's about to prove that fact to that army out there."

"Optimism can sometimes bring grief. The Second Division found that out to their dismay." She glared at him, coldly provocative tones in her voice.

"Sinklar Fist is not Mykroft — and you're dealing with the First Division. We ain't anything like the Second." Mhitshul uncrossed his arms and lifted a shoulder. "Want to watch your Rebels take it on the chin?"

"No, but I'll watch our people rip your precious Regan asses to pieces." She shifted her gaze to Sink. "What now? Death? Torture? Rape? Slave sale?"

"I'm off the Killing Ridge." Mac's tense voice came through comm. "The Rebels have the whole thing. We took fifteen casualties — but I think they're satisfied they bought it the hard way."

"Nice work, Mac," Sinklar praised as the stat board lights changed. He turned, frowning at the assassin. Her curious eyes fascinated him. They pinned him, and, for a brief moment, he swayed in their amber power. The universe might have funneled into those hypnotic depths.

Enough to lure my attention away from the battle? Sink turned on his heel, striding over to meet the woman's stare with one of his own. Another front to this fight? he wondered as he bent down before her and locked gazes in a battle of wills. For long moments, he wavered, aware of the musky scent of her body, of her firm flesh and the delight it promised. Finally she gasped, blinked, and looked away.

The spell broken, Sinklar examined her. Young, her auburn hair draped in glorious waves over her shoulders to contrast with her amazing amber eyes, straight nose, and high forehead. She had perfect cheekbones over a delicate jaw, flawless tanned complexion slightly reddened by the excitement of the battle. The muscles of her flat stomach rippled. Her breasts strained at the formfitting suit she wore as if possessed of a desire to be free.

But her eyes, seemed so… familiar! A sudden realization hit him: She's a Seddi assassin — just like my mother once was! He frowned, lips parting as he studied her. A warmth rose in his breast. But for the irony of time, this

could have been his mother. Would Tanya Fist have had that same wild sensuality? Pate wrapped about him.

"Sink?" Gretta called with an unfamiliar tension. "There's a war on."

Sink walked back to the board, aware of Gretta's sharp scrutiny. He tilted his head in a questioning manner and Gretta's throat burned red as she turned back to the situation board. Jealous?

"Ayms," Sink called to the comm, "your people are on deck now; time to hit them back. If you and Kap can roll their flank up against the ridge while Hauws and Kitmon push back their side, we've got them right where we want them." He rubbed his chin nervously. Why did the Targan assassin seem so familiar?

"Well, that's it," Gretta finished wearily. "We make it or break it in the next half hour." She turned her attention to the assassin. "So you're the saboteur? What do we call you?"

The woman blazed with barely caged anger. "I am Arta Fera. I was only out for an evening stroll. Your man here got a little too zealous."

"With a satchel charge powerful enough to put us all in orbit?" Sinklar asked. "You were most professional, so I assume you're in contact with the Targan resistance, possi bly with the Seddi themselves. Perhaps we can all come to terms and stop this nonsense."

"I thought you'd be older. You don't look like much of a Division First."

"You don't look like much of an assassin, either. I always thought an assassin would be older, less. obtrusive." Is that a Seddi trait? To use beautiful women, women like Tanya Fist?

Arta bit her lip and looked away. "I take it I am to be executed. Or would you use me as a bargaining piece when our forces overrun your positions?"

Sinklar considered as he kept one ear on the combat reports coming in through the comm. "I suppose that depends on the next half hour. I don't know who their First

,is, but he's very good. I detect a sure hand, a bright mind behind their movements and training. We should have had him in position an hour ago. He's handled the battle quite adroitly. "

She laughed. "He's a comm repairman by trade. He is also the man who will break your Regan rule on Targa!" "A comm repairman?" Sinklar pondered as he turned his

attention to the blaster fire that streaked the horizon beyond the shielded windows of the penthouse. "I pray then that he survives. Talent like that is too good to be wasted. I would like to make him one of us."

"One of you?" Arta laughed at the absurdity of it. "Regan scum-sucker, he's fighting for Targa!"

Sinklar spun on his heel and he extended his hands toward her. The woman's lips parted as he whispered softly, "So am 1, Arta."

She swallowed and took a serious look at the stat board. The back-lighted orthographic photo glowed with colored lights to indicate Rebel and Regan movements. From the number of red positions, the Rebels had taken a major interfluvial ridge immediately outside of town. At the same time, the Rebel forces on the wide plains were being pushed inexorably back on the impregnable defenses of the ridge. The outlying perimeters of the fight surrounding Vespa seemed more or less stable. Defensively, the ridge dominated, the strategic key to the whole valley-and Targans held it.

"This comm repairman, what's his name?" Sinklar asked, softly. "I want to talk to him before it's too late."

"His name is Butla Ret." She gasped, a crimson flush supplanting her tan.

Sinklar's intuition triggered at the tone in her voice. "He is your lover?" Would he be the modern analog to my father? Is that the pattern? If I see him, will I see a version of Valient Fist? Will I see my own origins?

"That is no concern of yours!"

He dropped to one knee, searching her face as his fingers took her bound hand. Arta shivered suddenly as though a surge had passed from his flesh to hers.

He implored her, struggling to touch her very soul, "Arta, will you help me? We can stop all this. His death serves no one. Not me, not Targa, not anyone. Will he

listen to an appeal from you? Could we stop the fighting long enough so he

and I could meet? Maybe talk about a solution?"

She shut her eyes to escape his mesmerizing stare and bit her lip, as if pain might fight his soft insistent tones. Somehow she forced herself to resist. "No, Regan. It's out of the question. "

"I'm not your enemy, Arta. I don't want to destroy him." Or am I only seeking to preserve a tenuous link to my past? She twisted her head away. Struggling, voice quavering,

she asked, "Destroy him? How, Regan? He's got the ridge!"

Sinklar stood and moved away. Arta blinked, her breathing coming more evenly. Gretta's gaze followed the woman's as she looked back across the room to the situation board. Even a fool could see the gradual erosion of the Targan flanks around the ridge.

"That ridge," Sinklar said sadly as he pointed at the Targan position on the situation board, "is a death trap. Deep in the guts of the rocks we buried the reactor from a power unit taken from a crippled LC. As soon as we can roll the flanks back far enough, we will tell the Rebels what their situation is and demand their surrender." He turned to pin her with his oddly colored eyes. "I would rather take them alive." Maybe learn the secrets of who you are-find the key to my parents.

Gretta hunched in the chair, nervous gaze darting back and forth between Arta and Sinklar.

"Not Butla," Arta whispered, voice thick with dread. "Rotted Gods, no!" The amber eyes glazed crazily, setting a horrible shiver playing along Sinklar's spine. A warning triggered in his subconscious. She's teetering on the edge of something I don't understand. Beware, Sinklar, she's dangerus-more dangerous than anyone you've ever met.

"Will you contact him… save him and his troops? I need them, Arta. Targa needs them. Alive." Sinklar bent down beside her again, gaze boring into hers.

She swallowed, expression haunted. "I will… talk to Butla Ret. " -

"Don't let her, Sink," Gretta warned. "She's not sane. Something is terribly wrong with her."

Sink rubbed the back of his neck. "It's our only chance,

Gretta. To save them, turn them to our side, I'll take a chance. How long until we're in position to destroy them?"

"From the way they're falling back, we could probably establish contact with the blast perimeter at any time." Gretta replied. "Should I attempt to make contact with this Butla Ret?" I

"If you would." He smiled wistfully. "Let's see if we can t bring the killing to a stop."

Arta's glazed attention followed each of Gretta's moves as she began keying different channels into the comm, sending on all frequencies. A panicked expression flickered across the prisoner's face.

The minutes passed slowly as Arta studied the ridge, ominous where it dominated the stat board. Her perfect mouth came open as she stared, transfixed.

"This is Butla Ret. Who are you? What do you want? A deep bass filled the room.

Sink walked up to the comm as he composed his words. "Sinklar?" Gretta called, voice firm, pointing at the shivering assassin. Fera looked berserk as she writhed on the couch. Mhitshul had begun to sweat, licking his lips nervously.

Sinklar took a deep breath, and gave a shrug of desperation before he faced the speaker.

"I am Sinklar Fist, First of the First Targan Assault Division, Lord Ret. I want to stop this battle and meet with you to discuss bringing this war to an end." Fist crossed his arms and gazed at the stat board expectantly, eyes strained as if trying to see through the map, to find his opponent in the wrinkles and contours of the holograph.

"Why should I deal, Sinklar Fist? My forces hold the strategic ground. We've taken the Vespa Ridge-the key to any defensive position in the valley." His deep booming voice sounded imminently reasonable.

Gretta winced at the sight of Arta Fera, who twisted with horror.

So many lives hinge on this… this crazy woman? Blessed Gods, help us! Sinklar continued, "And if I told you the ridge was mined, that your flanks are being pushed back within the blast radius, what would you say then?"

"That you are bluffing!" Butla's vibrant voice rang out. Gretta's expression mirrored worry as Arta reacted to

those deep ringing tones. A sudden light flashed behind the blazing amber

eyes, hope flickering where before there had been only insanity.

"Lord Ret, we've captured Arta Fera. Would you take her word? We caught her trying to bomb our headquarters." Sinklar waited, heart hammering. So much to bet on the sanity of a panicked assassin. I must be out of my mind! But who else would Butla Ret listen to?

Ret's voice was curiously subdued. "I would talk to her." Sinklar looked desperately, pleadingly, at the assassin. "Arta? Are you all right?" Butla asked gently.

Sinklar closed his eyes, oddly touched by the compassion and concern in Ret's voice.

Arta looked haunted, focused on some terrible memory. "Butla!" she shrieked in terror. "Don't listen! They want you to surrender! They can't hold against you! They are bluffing. Vile Regan liars!"

Gretta shook her head, a miserable dullness in her posture. No saving them now.

Sinklar spun on his feet, and Arta laughed triumphantly in his face.

"Do not harm her, Regan," Butla's voice came firmly over the comm. "We are coming for you. As long as Arta is treated with respect, we will act within the accords of honor. Harm her, and the streets will run with Regan blood. That I promise!"

"Wait!" Sinklar cried passionately, arms out as he faced the comm pickup. "At least talk to me! Butla? Butla Ret?" He paced back and forth while desperation pumped adrenaline into his system.

"He cut the connection," Gretta told him.

Arta smiled, eyes still glazed as she nodded, enjoying her victory. She seemed to gloat at Sinklar's misery.

Gretta craned her neck to glare at the woman, expression filled with loathing. "Enjoy yourself, you… wretched bitch. You love Butla Ret? I pray I never experience a love like yours. "

"We have no choice," Sinklar muttered in a dispirited tone. "The Targan forces are within the kill zone."

Gretta nodded and turned her attention from Arta's dancing defiance to inputting instructions to the Sections.

"Attention, all personnel!" Sinklar's voice rang out. "Duck and cover!"

"Shiksta?" Gretta's voice came hoarsely. "Detonate the mine. Destroy the Killing Ridge."

" 'Firmative," Shik's voice came back.

Arta turned to look with the rest. She was still smirking at the culpability of the Regans when a gout of brilliant light lanced beyond the outskirts of the city. Before her disbelieving eyes, clots of black rose in the lurid apocalyptic flash. Seconds later the ground shook. Then the shock wave battered the building, bouncing her couch.

"All units," Sinklar ordered, voice hollow, "Keep cover until the fallout has passed. When you read all clear, commence mop-up. Stay away from the hot spots. We'll begin evacuating casualties immediately."

Mouth open, Arta watched the oddly luminous cloud that rose over the plain. The air carried an odd rumble as the shock wave Dopplered off into the distance.

Her startled gaze went to the stat board to see the lights now gone dead. The realization broke over her in a cold wash.

Sink pinched the bridge of his nose, disgusted with the woman-disgusted with all of it. Shoulders sagging, he walked wearily from the room. He could feel Gretta's worried gaze, feel the horror that had possessed Mhitshul.

Arta Fera screamed then-the sound that of a demented animal in torment.

Sinklar closed his eyes and staggered, overwhelmed by the memory of his mother's pale face mocking him from her casket.